After the Fall
by Amanda N. Lupin
Summary: In the wake of Sherlock's death John struggles to cope, and realizes just how much he has lost. But all may not be what it seems...


He was in the shop at their table. His intelligence has told him so, but Mycroft had already know he would be there, was already headed there by the time the tail he had assigned to him sent him an update. Angelo was clearly trying to cheer him, but the doctor looked as miserable as it is possible for a person to be, probably worse, and he seemed merely to be picking at his plate of fish and chips to humor the other man. Mycroft took the seat across from him without a word banishing Angelo with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What do you want," John snapped bitterly.

"Manners, Dr. Watson. I may have been my brother's self-described 'arch-enemy,' but I hardly think we were adversaries." John merely snorted continuing to stare down the plate of food he wasn't eating.

He wished everyone would just stop talking about him, and at the same time he couldn't let him go. Couldn't move out of the flat he couldn't afford without Mrs. Hudson's sympathy and generosity. Couldn't help but find himself eating, when he could bring himself 'round to do so, at the same haunts, the same tables they had eaten at together. Couldn't help but walk the same trails they had walked, or run trailing leads and suspects, in his late night walks when he couldn't sleep or needed some air. Somehow some small, completely illogical part of him didn't want to believe he was really gone, still held out hope that perhaps he'd merely gotten lost in thought as he so often did and taken off without him...That any moment he would run into him around the next corner with that same childish grin of his that challenged him to keep up...Or maybe a text telling him to hurry home where he would find him lying on the couch with his nicotine patches deep in thought.

_**"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH"**_

_** "If inconvenient, come anyway. SH"**_

Home, John thought almost amused. Yes, 221B Baker Street had become home. Sherlock, was home. Now without him, John felt lost. More alone than he ever had before. He couldn't bring himself to get rid of anything, not even his many "experiments" that cluttered every shelf and countertop. But even so the flat seemed empty, too quiet, almost museum-like without him. He had given up the upstairs room, and moved what few possessions he had to a closet downstairs with the main rooms. For one thing it didn't seem fair to be paying Mrs. Hudson half her usual rent for so many rooms that weren't even being used, but more importantly painful though it was he couldn't sleep, couldn't bear not being in those rooms. Alternating between the couch, the lounge chair, or his bed, terrified of the inevitable day when they would no longer smell like him. Until he had lost him, John hadn't even realized he'd noticed what his flatmate smelled like. Now he clung to every memory he could with a nearly infantile tenacity no amount of logic or therapy seemed to dissuade.

He loved him. It was so clear now he wondered how he could have missed it before. At what point had he begun lying to himself and those around him when he denied them being a couple and his interest in him? Often in the days that had followed he wondered if his friend had missed it too. Would it have made a difference to him? Would he still have found himself at the top of that building making that terrible call if he had known he was loved? how different might life have been, how much time had he wasted? And now he would never know, would never have that chance again. Such thoughts and the loss of his best friend, the only man he'd ever truly trusted, tortured him more than any flashbacks of what he'd seen in the war ever had.

_**"That...was amazing."**_

_** "Do you think so?"**_

_** "Of course it was, it was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."**_

_** "That's not what people normally say."**_

_** "What do people normally say?"**_

_** "Piss off."**_

_** "Fantastic..!"**_

_** "Do you know you do that aloud?"**_

_** "Sorry, I'll shut up..."**_

_** "..No, it's fine.**_

He couldn't look at Mycroft. It wasn't his fault his brother had taken his life, but it was nice to have someone besides himself to blame for it. Hadn't he been having them followed? Wasn't he supposed to be concerned for his brother? Why hadn't he done anything? But, John thought to himself, I was living with him, how did I miss it? Surely Sherlock would not have been so careless had he, John, been so depressed and contemplating ending his life. John couldn't help but feel the better man had died, that the world was a darker place without Sherlock in it. If it had been anything else, a bullet, John would have jumped in front of it for him, would have died for him in an instant. Mrs. Hudson and Angelo at least seemed to express some sorrow, even Lestrade seemed to regret the loss, but Mycroft... Mycroft sat across the table in the same suit he always seemed to wear, or perhaps he simply had a closet full of them. His umbrella twirling between his fingers, eyes occasionally searching the busy street beyond the window with passing curiosity. He might have been a million miles away rather than just across the table. Icy, distant, almost bored, removed somehow from the heartache all around him, and John hated him for it. What he wouldn't give not to feel, to be numb to the pain: the constant dull ache in his chest... His limp, which seemed only to have become worse than it had ever been in his absence.

"So what do you want Mycroft," John repeated, pulling himself reluctantly from his memories and reverie.

"I seem to have underestimated your level of attachment to one another," Mycroft replied casually as though he had just noticed a small grammatical error in a note to a colleague.

"Did you," John replied bitterly. John couldn't help but think of the first time he had met him and what he had said of his friendship with his brother.

**"**_**Since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"**_

John had played this and hundreds, thousands of memories like it over and over in his head. Perhaps this moment, or this one, if he could just go back in time, if he had only told him how he'd felt, if he'd pushed a little longer or harder... when? When he had said he was married to his work? When he'd been jealous of his spending his evenings with dates instead of him? Why hadn't he just worked up the courage to ask him? What might have been if he'd tested those waters a second time...

_**"You have a girlfriend?"**_

_** "Girls aren't really my area."**_

No. It was useless. Maddening.

But what did Mycroft mean 'for each other?' Was it possible that Sherlock had had feelings for him too? And how would Mycroft know that? No, it was no good to think on that either. What good could come it? He only stood to torment himself with his memories all the more.

"I seem to have overestimated your level of attachment," John replied finally. "Who's ass was it more important to kiss than attending your brother's funeral." Mycroft chuckled softly.

"I've never seen much point in crying over a pine box," he shrugged. "I'm told you were very moved." How dare he, John thought furiously. How dare he spy on him, intrude upon his grief. What interest could Dr. John Watson be to the higher powers that be without Sherlock Holmes?

"Your brother's body was in that wooden box you're so eager to dismiss," John spat venomously.

"Ah," said Mycroft settling back into his chair lazily. "Well, that is a matter of opinion I'm afraid."

"A matter of opinion," John ejaculated. "How the bloody hell is anyone's death a difference of opinion?"

"Well you and I both know we aren't talking about just 'anybody' are we?"

"Damnit Mycroft, he's not Lazarus, or Schrödinger's cat. He's dead," John choked slightly, forcing his anger to rise to the surface in order to continue without falling apart. "He's dead. He isn't coming back. I saw him," John continued. I held him, he thought brokenly, held him in my arms that once on the worst possible day, and I never will again. "He had no pulse. He's gone," John couldn't stop the tears now, no matter how much he wanted to. At least he was able to hold back the undignified sobs that he'd displayed when he held his body, and watched them lowering the casket at the funeral. It was the first time since his therapy session two weeks ago that he'd admitted as much aloud. He hadn't been back to therapy since. He was dead. Gone. And he wasn't coming back. What was Mycroft playing at tormenting him like this?

"He's not," Mycroft replied softly.

"What do you mean he's not?"

"He's not dead."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I thought," Mycroft replied, sounding somewhat impatient. "We were talking about my brother, Sherlock. Do you trust me?"

"No. Not at all. Not as far as I could throw you." Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head.

"I'd kill to have men as loyal. Fine, well try for 30 minutes. Humor me."

"Why should I," John replied eyeing the elder Holmes distrustfully.

"Because it takes at least 20 minutes to get to Brixton, and the traffic is terrible today."

"What's in Brixton?" Mycroft gave him the same 'we both know what's really going on here' look he had become so annoyed and accustomed to seeing on his brother's face.

"Follow me Dr. Watson, unless you have someone else promising you the chance to see your late flatmate again." Damn him, how could John do anything but follow him? John complied for the first time since Sherlock's death feeling numb. Could it be possible? It occurred to John that it didn't really matter anymore. If Mycroft was leading him to death by firing squad at least it would be an end. He could be with Sherlock again. And Heaven, or hell, whether Sherlock was as mad about him, or thought of him simply as his first and only friend, John didn't much care if it meant being able to see him, to be with him again.

It wasn't until the car drew to a stop that it occurred to him where they were. The apartment where they had found the woman in the dreadful pink, the fourth suicide-murder-their first case together.

John started to ask what exactly they were doing here, when he saw a familiar profile in the fourth story window. It was there for a moment and then it had disappeared out of view. It could have been a mirage, his mind showing him what he wanted so desperately to see and believe, but it didn't matter. Cane forgotten in the back seat of the car, John raced up the decrepit stairs with a reckless abandon, throwing open the door and completely ignoring the hateful thing as it banged against the patchy wall behind it.

"Sherlock?" John felt as if his heart had leapt clear up into his throat. The tall, lanky man turned his attention from Mycroft and the car in the street below to the man who'd addressed him. John felt dizzy, it wasn't possible, and yet there was no mistaking that the man in front of him was none other than the Sherlock Holmes he had thought he saw buried two weeks ago. "Sherlock," John repeated, a statement this time, and almost relieved. John felt dizzy, this had to be a dream. "Say something," he begged. Anything, John thought desperately.

"Hello John." John felt his knees begin to buckle, and locked them in place. He would know that voice anywhere, god how he had missed it.

"It is you," John whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

"Go ahead," Sherlock replied calmly.

"With what?"

"You were trying to decide whether to hug or to punch me. Go ahead. I'm sure I have either coming to me." Actually John thought, he wanted to kiss him. It had been the first thought the moment he saw him in the window. God all he wanted was to yank him into his arms and crush his lips to his. He didn't even give a damn if it were smooth, romantic, or gentle, he just wanted to feel him against him. To hold him tight and never let him go, not ever again. Somehow he didn't think that would go over well. John stiffened uncomfortably when he realized that Sherlock had been studying him curiously. "You're not angry," he observed sounding a little surprised. "You're disappointed I didn't tell you."

"You let me believe you were dead."

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Sherlock was certain John had heard him, but it wasn't important right now, his pride wasn't worth losing him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated. "It wasn't to hurt you," he added softly.

"It's never about me with you is it, Sherlock," John blurted out exasperatedly. How could he possibly have thought that losing him wouldn't hurt him? Sherlock frowned.

"It's always been about you John," Sherlock contradicted. "You really don't know?"

"You're making that face again," John replied, though less frustrated, as annoying as it was, it so nice to be seeing it again John found he didn't mind it all that much.

"John as long as you are with me you'll never be safe. I can't keep you safe," he confessed softly. "I tried. If Moriarty had had his way he'd have killed you and simultaneously destroyed me."

_**"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone Sherlock, to you? I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."**_

_** "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."**_

_** "But we both know that's not quite true."**_

__"He was right in one respect. I do have a heart in spite of my brain's better attempts to rid myself of it. I might not always know how to express it, or what to do with it, but I've always had one when it came to you. Any good criminal would figure it out soon enough, as long as I live anyone that wants to hurt me will come after you John."

"You said dangerous, and here I am," John replied softly paraphrasing his own words against him.

"Here you are," Sherlock repeated with a soft half-smile. "You realize this means I have to kill myself again..."

"No. I won't allow it." Sherlock laughed. "I mean it Sherlock, when I thought you were dead I..." John stammered.

"I know. John what you said at the cemetery after everyone left..."

"You were there? ...Oh who am I kidding of course you were there, you narcissistic sod." Sherlock grinned for just a moment at this pronouncement before returning to his train of thought.

"Yes, fascinating thing attending one's own funeral. More people than I expected to turn up actually. John what you said, I didn't realize..."

"What how much I cared?" John wanted to be mad, even frustrated with him, but found that he couldn't be. That Sherlock was slightly emotionally inept was part of his charm, part of what John loved about him. "You might have asked me how I felt," John suggested. Sherlock's eyes widened almost frightened, shaking his head.

"You see, this is what I meant when I said being alone was safer."

"Do you mean to tell me that jump you took was safer than asking another human being how they feel about you," John tried, but failed to suppress a laugh.

"I'm suggesting that the former is much more straightforward and far less intimidating. Besides you're not just another human being," Sherlock argued his voice dropping steadily into a nervous, uncertain mumble.

"And what am I besides your flat-mate," John prodded. He found himself grateful his voice didn't betray the hope he didn't dare trust that Sherlock might be alluding to feeling more for him than their friendship as John did for him. "Why on earth would asking me how I felt about you be more frightening than a four story plunge?"

"Do you remember our conversation in Angelo's the night of our first case together, about what normal people have in their real lives?

"Yes," John replied hesitantly. "Which bit?"

"I said that I considered myself married to my work..."

"Yes, I remember."

"Well I um... I feel rather differently about it now, I'm contemplating a divorce," Sherlock stumbled slightly.

"I see," John replied fighting everything in him to keep his voice steady.

"You're going to make me say it aren't you," Sherlock sighed.

"Say what?"

"Can't I just jump off another building," Sherlock sighed sounded pained.

"I'm love you John. I'm in love with you. I've never loved anybody before in my life. So yes, the idea of asking you whether or not you feel similarly about me, far more terrifying than jumping from a roof on to a mattress. What if you didn't? What if the idea of us was completely repulsive to you? What if after everything we've been through my selfishness finally ruined it and drove you away?" John couldn't even process the logistics of how Sherlock had faked his death in that moment. His head was reeling. "And what can I offer you really, more than I already have as your friend? I don't know anything about relationships, certainly not functional ones..." Sherlock continued rambling.

"You love me," John ejaculated surprised. Sherlock nodded, swallowing hard and scrutinizing the other man's face cautiously.

"Ask me," John encouraged, smiling softly at him. Trying to swallow his heart back down from where it had leapt up into his throat.

"I thought the question was implied, this is the point where you tell me you meant everything you said in the cemetery about me being a good man, and you're flattered, but..."

"Sherlock," John interrupted firmly.

"Yes," he replied halting his stream of babbling.

"I said ask me, not answer for me. How about you give me a crack at answering for myself?" Sherlock braced himself against the wall for the inevitable rejection that was to follow, trying to pace his heartbeat and breathing, before he nodded once more. Damn he wished he had a nicotine patch, or twelve...

"Sherlock, I must have spent hours thinking about what I would say if I could just wake up one morning and you'd be there. If everything that happened that day could just have been a terrible dream. And do you know, I still don't know what to say. But if there was anything I regretted in all the things we did together it was that I never tried... I never told you how much I cared about you. I should have told you every day. Maybe if I had, it wouldn't have taken me losing you to realize how much I loved you." Sherlock's head shot up with such force, John almost feared he would snap his neck.

"John," Sherlock asked, not daring to believe his own ears.

"Oh sod it," John said finally. It took all of a second for John to cross the room and push the taller man back against the wall, tugging on his scarf to pull his face down to his. Their lips met in a hot, and hungry kiss, John's free hand combing through and grasping desperately at his dark brown curls, stopping only when both men had exhausted all the oxygen in their lungs. "Incredible. God you have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," John whispered softly, refusing to let go of him. Sherlock smiled, letting his arms fall around John's waist.

"It can't have been that amazing," Sherlock replied confused. "I didn't know what I was doing,"

"It was, but we could try again if you think you can do better," John smiled.

"John, I couldn't bare it if I lost you," Sherlock confessed softly.

"Then maybe you should stop pretending to die to push me away," John smiled, burying himself into his coat and chest.

"But it's dangerous being with me."

"And yet here I am," John smiled, and Sherlock knew he was fighting a losing battle. He would never be rid of Dr. John Watson now, and selfish though it may have been he couldn't be more glad of it.

"Here you are," Sherlock repeated grinning. "Shall we go home and give Mrs. Hudson a heart-attack?"

"Oh god yes.


End file.
